


Rue and Reminiscence

by Jim_del_Carnival



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 06:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12227535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jim_del_Carnival/pseuds/Jim_del_Carnival
Summary: Returning home wasn't anything like Wilson had hoped. He'd left too much behind this time. ჯ One-shot.





	Rue and Reminiscence

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fairly opposed to writing much angst for this game because the situation makes it too easy for me, but I started considering what would happen after the story. When they manage to make their way back home to their own world, that would be a pretty massive life alteration despite it being the goal. An adjustment like that entails some pretty hefty psychological effects, but it'd be even worse if Wilson didn't just leave behind everything he'd gotten used to, but also everyone he cared about.

Everything was exactly the way Wilson had left it.

He didn't know how long it had been. A while. A fuzzy gray sheet of dust coated everything. The floor. The shelves. His desk. A couple of ceramic plates by the sink were unwashed, and a crust of brownish food was like dried gobs of paint on the sides. What had he eaten last before being pulled into the portal of a tangent dimension?

He took another step into the cabin. Uneasily, cautiously, as though stepping uninvited into the home of a stranger. A board creaked, low and deep, beneath his foot. He immediately stepped backwards again, lingering in the doorway.

The air was stale. More stale and powdery and bland than old saltines. Dry. He sniffed a couple of times. A trace of mildew was a tart undertone beneath the dust. After all the time he had spent living outdoors, sleeping under constellations and tree boughs, breathing in grass and pine and sunshine and wind, he wasn't used to the tasteless, empty air in his house.

_Wasn't used to_. What an odd feeling. One that, years ago, he would never have even considered the possibility of. Wasn't used to. Wasn't used to the comfort and safety of his own home?

He scuffed the side of his shoe against the threshold. A loose nail, protruding an inch from the floorboard, caught the side of his worn-out oxford. He paused. He had completely forgotten about that nail. Innumerable times, countless and infinite times he'd tripped on it or stepped on it and had cursed a rainbow streak and swore he'd rip the house down plank by plank if it happened again. How had he forgotten that?

The more his stare drifted from one corner of the one-room cabin to another, he more he realized he had forgotten. How the faucet leaked steady drips that popped against the bottom of the sink and echoed. How the crooked hand on the pendulum clock ticked off one second, then inched back two. How the painting of a chickadee nestled on a pine branch hung above his cluttered desk, tilted a few degrees to the left. He couldn't ever manage to straighten that painting.

He'd longed for this house every day he had been away. He ached for his bed, his claw-foot porcelain bathtub, his cushioned chair, his faded patchwork quilt handed down from great-grandparents that was warm enough to ward the chill off a yeti. Every night that he'd drifted to sleep with his head pillowed on his arm and grass scratching his cheek, he'd wished he were here. Sometimes he thought his ribs would cave in from how empty he'd felt. He'd suffered to find his way back.

And now, nothing welcomed him from his long journey. Everything was dusty, cold, and somber. Gray. Mildewed. Nothing cared that he'd been away for so long.

How long  _had_ it been?

Wilson lowered his head. The weight of understanding made his shoulders sag.

He'd changed. Nothing he'd left behind had. It wasn't really his anymore. It had all grown complacent in the silence.

He rested his hand on the rough door frame. He rubbed a few flakes of peeling paint loose. With a labored sigh that brewed up from his lungs slow as molasses, he trudged into the cabin. He couldn't bring himself to close the door behind him.

A chill made the hair on his arms prickle against his sleeves. He braced his shoulders hard against a shudder. His throat began to tighten and burn, and his eyes flooded. Dust. Too much dust. He sank to his knees beside his bed, folded his arms, and pressed his face into them.

Shock, he thought. He gritted his teeth and pushed his nose deeper into his arms. Culture shock. That's all it is. Normal reaction. Everyone gets it. Won't last long. How long? I'll be okay.

Comfort didn't come. He repeated the words over and again, just to force his thoughts into a pattern that wouldn't wander. He would be okay. He would make coffee. Wash his face with hot water and soap. It'd been too long since he'd had soap. Even the rough brick of brown pine soap was fit for royalty. He'd sit at his desk with a book by the oil lamp. Read Darwin or Bohr or Tesla. He'd indulge in all the luxuries that he'd dreamed of every day he was gone. And eventually, he'd forget about everything that had happened.

He'd forget the smell of woods unmarred by civilization. He'd forget the feeling of listening to a campfire pop and crackle in an empty night and toss up floating embers like fireflies to the stars. He'd forget the satisfaction of tasting food he had made; caught; the burnt bark of meat crumbling in his mouth and the smoky flavor of game. He'd forget the voices of friends that made him feel as though no haunt or creature or shadow from the woods could ever take him.

He'd . . . forget.

He turned his head just enough to look at the wall. It blurred. He stared through the uneven rough pine boards, past the splinters and knots, far beyond. Walls hadn't surrounded him for so long. Walls that separated him from the woods and sky that had been his home shared with so many others.

He thought of them.

Willow. She had annoyed him with her bluntness and how she laughed at so many things. Except his jokes. Now he wondered how he could ever have found her laughter and rough ways unpleasant. What had been wrong with him?

Wendy. The little girl had unnerved him. Her hollow eyes and the way she so often brought up death. Wilson hated being reminded of death, but Wendy spoke of it as if she were referring to a far-off relative whom she missed. If Wilson had another chance, he would grab her in a hug that not even death itself could have pulled her from if it tried. He'd never liked children, but he would have fought any monster with only his fists on a dare if it could keep Wendy safe.

Just as with Webber. The sight of the boy had so often made Wilson resort to turning his head. Wilson hated spiders. It was hard to look past Webber's appearance and remember that under the wiry hair and jagged fangs was a lost child. Webber's optimism and cheerful remarks grated on Wilson's nerves, and he often reminded Webber that he was too busy for games. Or chats. Or affection. But if Wilson were with him now, he would push away every obligation and responsibility and chore just to balance Webber on his knee and talk about spacemen and kitty-cats and pirates.

And Wickerbottom. Her know-it-all ways had irked him. She always corrected him when he mispronounced something or gave a wrong fact, and she always seemed to know when he was making something up as he went. But now he wouldn't have cared if she interrupted every sentence he spoke to correct on something. He would have thanked her for caring enough.

And Wolfgang. Wilson wouldn't have minded how loud he talked or how much he ate or how messy he was. And Wigfrid. He wouldn't be bothered by her warrior bellows or how she acted as though everything was fiction and there were no consequences. He would have praised her dedication to her role, her talent.

And Woodie. And WX-78. And Walani. And Warly . . .

And Wes.

A pang hit Wilson directly over his sternum, startling him. It was as if a stone had struck him with all the force a strong arm could hurl it. He hitched up his shoulders with a sharp breath and dug his fingers into his arms.

He shouldn't have let his mind wander. He shouldn't have reminisced. He shouldn't have started thinking of his friends. He didn't want to think of him. Not now. Not so soon. Not ever.

Wilson screwed his eyes shut, willing his thoughts to cease or divert. Think of the chores I'll have, he told himself. Think of what color paint I should get for the cabin. Think of what groceries I should get from the market. What my first meal back home should be.

But his thoughts looped and tumbled and piled up like straw in a gale. They faded from thoughts of the future to the sepia past and waved banners of memories he now wanted gone. Images laced with emotion raced through his mind. Images that were as crisp and vivid as if he were experiencing them all over again.

There'd been times he couldn't stand Wes. More than any other person he'd ever met. His shy gestures and placating smile and how he seemed so content with everything. Everything he did bothered Wilson. How he ate more than three people combined but couldn't do half as much as one. How he lagged behind and always needed someone's help. And how he never seemed to feel guilty for how little he contributed—and how everyone loved him despite.

Wilson had been jealous of him. For a long, long time. He was jealous that he himself could do so much and gave everything he had, but was tense with everyone and the receiving ends of taunts and jibes. And how Wes had nothing to give in terms of building, gathering, or protecting anyone, but they all cherished his company and returned every one of his smiles. They talked to him as if he were no different from them.

Wilson hadn't understood it for so long. He still wouldn't have if it weren't for Willow. Maybe it would be better now if he'd never understood and continued to whisk Wes aside as if he were a fly. But Willow had grabbed Wilson by his collar one night and hauled him to the edge of the woods to lash him with criticism. Maybe Wilson should treat Wes like a friend instead of a nuisance. Maybe Wilson could learn from Wes to have hope and enjoy things like flowers and clouds and cats. Maybe Wes was everything Wilson wasn't. Maybe Wes wanted to share with Wilson.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. She'd used that word a lot. Except there was no uncertainty. Wilson knew it was true.

He'd listened to her that time. He didn't know why. He'd never considered anyone's advice, especially Willow's, as something he should acknowledge. After all—he was the educated one. The smart one. He didn't need other people to pound on stakes he'd already placed. But he'd stewed over her words, marinating in his own confusion and disgust and jealousy. He'd settled in his mind that he'd talk to Wes. He wouldn't like it. He wouldn't enjoy it. He'd just do it, because Willow had asked, and a gentleman's duty was to humor a lady's even most ridiculous demands. Even if the lady was brusque and pushy. He wasn't afraid of her, of course. And it wasn't that he wanted to please her at all. He told himself he didn't care. He'd just loathed the idea of upsetting her. That was the only reason.

He'd talked to Wes. Sought him out late at night when there would be nobody awake to eavesdrop. He'd led him to the edge of the woods and sat. He remembered how cold and stiff and prickly the grass was against his legs. Remembered how sticky and hot the summer air was. Remembered the crickets and cicadas and treefrogs and rustling of leaves over his head that sounded more like ocean waves tumbling than birchnut leaves crackling. Knee-to-knee with Wes, he'd talked. Gruff, as though Willow were behind him brandishing a stick to club in his skull if he didn't talk. He kept his voice low and measured; focusing more on his tone than his words for awhile. Then he forgot. Everything came in a deluge. He didn't remember everything he'd said. But when he was finished, Wes had given him a shy smile and reached out, slow and hesitant, to put his hand delicate as a butterfly on Wilson's knee.

And things had changed. Began to, anyway. Unspoken, undiscussed. But they'd changed. Wilson came to see Wes no longer as only an amalgamation of obnoxious traits packed into the form of a gaunt boy with proportions too stretched and clothes too loose. If Wilson never had a best friend before, Wes was it. Wilson never knew he could treasure someone's company so deeply. Never even expected that it was possible to sit next to someone and be stricken with a warmth of gratitude and the sentiment of, "I'm glad I live in a world where you and I can sit together."

He never would have uttered a thought like that aloud. He'd chew his tongue out before he admitted such a soft, tender feeling. But he nursed it deep inside. Didn't even pay attention to it most of the time, but it was there. Every day it'd grown more. Willow was right. Wilson learned from Wes.

He'd begun to appreciate little things. Moments. Feelings. Sights. Things he never would have noticed before, much less cared about. But he'd changed.

He remembered the first time he really felt, from the deepest corner of his heart, a bubbling and overwhelming thanksgiving for flowers. Flowers, of all things. He saw them all the time. He crushed many underfoot. Who cared about flowers? But he did, the moment Wes offered him a lily to link together the ends of a garland. Velvet petals. White as winter moonlight. It smelled of dew and earth, with a sweetness underneath like honey. Wilson had taken the lily and tucked it into the breast pocket of his waistcoat and kept it until it withered to brittle brown.

He remembered the first time he appreciated a sunset. He'd always hated sunsets. The sun disappeared beneath the horizon, and with the darkness came danger. Spiders, hounds, shadows that could bite. Darkness meant an hours-long struggle against exhaustion and the ritual of staying awake to feed logs to the fire. The sunset was a warning of fears to come. Who could enjoy a sunset?

But he did, when Wes sat beside him on a riverbank as Wilson eked out the last minutes of light on fishing. Wes dangled his feet over the ledge for a while with his eyes closed, his face angled to the sun. Wilson had watched out of the corner of his eye as sunshine crystallized in Wes's hair like gold dust and made his cheeks glow. A breeze, slow and sweet as caramel, skimmed through the trees and ruffled Wes's hair. Somehow, Wilson felt serene. His leg was close to Wes's, separated by all the breadth of a twig. Wilson moved a little closer.

He remembered the first time he'd appreciated a touch. He'd always hated being touched. He found it rude; he wasn't a hands-on exhibit at a museum. He despised getting his clothes creased or a hair out of place. Who wanted to be touched? But Wilson did the moment Wes touched his cheek.

Wilson had staggered to the campsite after an unfortunate encounter between his foot and a tree root that introduced his face to the ground. The instant Wes saw Wilson's puffy, blotched black-and-purple eye, he'd darted to his side and hesitantly put his hand to his sore cheek. Wes's gloved thumb smoothed over Wilson's jaw, prickling his stubble, and Wilson realized that it didn't ache quite so much anymore. The tingle far overpowered the throbbing of a bruise.

He'd stared at Wes for a long time. He remembered noticing, for the first time, that his eyes were blue. Gray? Pale. But not icy or steely. Warm. Warm like lake water under the summer sun. Somehow, the realization jarred Wilson. He became aware of an emptiness in his gut that gave him a taste for something he couldn't pinpoint.

The longer he stood before Wes, eye contact constant, cheek in his hand, the more the feeling mounted. Tripled. Tenfold. Wilson started to ease up on tiptoe. He swayed a little. Wes immediately stepped back; he'd learned long ago to stay out of Wilson's personal space like minnows avoiding a trout. Wilson gathered a fistful of Wes's shirt to reel him forward. He locked his fingers and twisted the fabric around his hand for anchorage and leaned forward on the scuffed toes of his oxfords. His face was so close to Wes's that he could see the crisscrossing roadmap of veins in his eyes.

He didn't breathe. Didn't swallow. Didn't even blink. Rigid as a broom handle, he arched his neck, tilted his head, and touched his lips light as a ghost to the side of Wes's mouth.

His pulse pounded in his temples hard enough to make his skull crack. The corners of his vision ate into gray, devoured like paper set aflame. He still didn't breathe. It felt as though he couldn't. His heart was oozing through his ribs and into his stomach and he couldn't quite draw a breath. Before he knew what he was doing, he moved his hand up Wes's chest to clutch his shoulder.

Wilson remembered every detail. How his mouth tingled like he'd licked the button on the bottom of a lightbulb. How a chill slithered down the back of his shirt, a chill that rattled every thought from his brain. How Wes's threadbare shirt crumpled between his fingers. How his breath skimmed over his cheeks. How he smelled of grass and sweat and campfire smoke. Wilson squeezed his shoulder harder. Hard enough to leave bruises, now that he reflected on the moment. But neither of them cared then.

They'd cared so little about the consequences of change. So many things did change, but they hadn't ever really noticed to what extent. It had just happened, smooth as clear water flowing through a brook. They wandered together. Talked together. Slept together. Delved further with awkward ventures that led beneath blankets late at night. They'd learned about each other. Learned from each other. Wilson learned how to listen.

But now Wilson knew that, despite how much he'd learned, he still hadn't really listened. Everyone told him, at some point, how selfish he was. He hadn't listened then.

He'd wanted to go home. Even though he'd become part of a ragtag motley family that cared about him. Even though he'd found someone whom, for the first time in his life, he knew he could make a personal sacrifice for. He knew he could _._ But he hadn't. Wilson had thought too much of home. His things, his work, and his life. His solitary, lonely life in the mountains, with days spent poring over books and never hearing a voice other than the one in his own mind. He'd thought so much of this. So much that he didn't consider how it would feel to leave behind everything he'd learned and gained and made.

He'd looked forward to now. But what was now? Silent. Vacant. A cold house. Empty rooms.

The first time he'd been taken from his home, there had been a way back. A difficult, almost impossible way, but a way nonetheless. And now he'd been taken from his home again, but this time there was no way back.

The portal had closed behind him; there was no returning. He'd gotten what he wanted. They were all safe. Back home, back where they each had been before falling into the wilderness of the strange world. As far as the world here was concerned, it had never happened.

Somehow, that weighed him down more than anything else. His chest ached. Sitting on the floor, his knees weak, he leaned against the bed and let his head fall back until he stared at the ceiling. Cobwebs drifted like ghost streamers. Sunlight beamed past the crossbeams through cracks in the pine panels.

It had never happened. That's how it would be. Nobody else knew what he had experienced. There were no witnesses. The survivors were scattered through the world, and it was more likely that a blizzard would rage in a desert summer than it was that they would ever encounter each other again.

Wilson sank forward. The sensation of a rock striking his chest hit him again. He wouldn't see them again. Not Willow, not Wendy, not Wickerbottom—not Wes. He knew nothing of how Wes lived before the wilderness. Didn't know what he did. Where he lived. If he had family or relatives. Wilson had strung story after story to Wes about his life; his goals, his endeavors, his passion for the sciences. Wes knew a lot about Wilson, but Wilson had learned little about him. Wilson told himself it wasn't his fault. Wes couldn't talk. What was there to share? It wasn't that he hadn't listened.

Maybe he lived in Europe. France. Paris? Marseille? Even if he did, Wilson had no way to get there. Even if he did, Wilson wouldn't know where to look. Even if he did, there were thousands upon thousands of people—maybe millions of people there. He could search every day until he died and not even find a street corner on which Wes had stood. He'd never see him again. Never again.

Wilson would eat at his tidy table by the window with fluttery curtains alone, after so long sitting elbow-to-elbow with his friends around a crackling fire. He would work alone at his desk, after so long working with his friends, who were always there to hand him tools and offer him something to eat when he'd fretted grueling hours over a machine. He would sleep alone under a rotting ceiling, after so long sleeping beneath clouds and stars beside Wes, relaxing in his warmth and tangling their legs together.

That, more than anything, was a blow that numbed his mind. Alone. He'd sleep alone. Nobody to cling to when the unease of nightmares plagued him. Nobody to murmur halfhearted monologues to when sleep wouldn't come. Nobody to press against when chills gripped and blankets wouldn't suffice. Why hadn't he cherished that last night together? Why hadn't he concentrated more on memorizing every detail? Why hadn't he slept with his arms around Wes and his face in his hair instead of with his back to him? Why hadn't he talked to him?

Wilson laid his arms across his knees like a shelf and pushed his face into them. His shoulders shook. A dread crept through him like a fleet gangrene, numbing him from the inside out, spreading like a vine. His thoughts slowed until they didn't come anymore. His head was hollow.

He sat that way for a long time. Cold, with no feeling in his hands. Barely breathing. Exhausted. Caught in the dull void between sleep and wake.

He really was selfish.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he roused. Something warm was on his cheek. He tilted his head a little. It persisted. He cracked one eye open and turned his head just enough to look.

The setting sun glared orange, like a dollop of molten butterscotch, pouring its last rays out like honey over the horizon. The warmth of the fading light gleamed through the window and over Wilson. He watched, his eyes squinted and watery, as the light thinned and thinned to just orange threads until they vanished, leaving gold dust sparkling in the air.

Darkness settled. It was soft and gentle. Cottony blue clouds, stars like glitter scattered over royal blue silk. Trees rustling. The skinny tips of evergreens seeming like they'd poke the bottoms of the clouds.

And he realized: the night was beautiful here, too.

He put his hand on the floor and pushed himself up. He got to his feet slowly. His joints creaked. In a trance, he padded to the open door and stepped outside.

Wind pushed leaves in a little train over the ground. Frogs in the trees trilled. Somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove murmured. Water in the brook that coiled through the valley tumbled over stone and log.

Wilson stood on the rickety porch with his arms folded. He stared up at the moon, thin as the edge of a cracker in the clouds. The fresh scent of pine surrounded him.

All at once, he knew. He knew he didn't really want to forget.

Somewhere Wes would see the same sky he did. Just like the one they'd looked at every night. He hoped that somehow, Wes would feel Wilson's resolution to never forget. He hadn't lost him. Not really. Distance couldn't erode a bond developed through surviving together day to day.

For the first time since he'd returned, comfort tarried with Wilson. He would miss his friends. Miss them the rest of his life. He would think about them every day. But he'd be okay. He'd go back to the same things he did before he met them, but that didn't mean he'd forget. He was different. Better. He would appreciate everything now. Wes had taught him that. He wouldn't forget.

He turned back inside and closed the door behind him.


End file.
